


the runner

by falsealarm



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4403108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsealarm/pseuds/falsealarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was a girl like Danny in the 70’s. She was tall, lithe, blue eyes, a runner that Carmilla happened upon in San Francisco."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the runner

**Author's Note:**

> Post-season 2, episode 15 technically though there are no spoilers for it.

The skies are clear, icy blue and bright with a midday sun that’s nudged the temperature just above freezing. Campus is quiet though, the day beautiful but still too cold for the usual campus activities. Students are tucked inside remaining dorms, perched at the edge of roaring fireplaces, burning building debris to feed the hungry flames. Even the few remaining angler fish protesters had scattered to the wind, paper banners and cardboard signs left in their wake.

The bench beneath Carmilla’s back is metal and air cooled enough to grab at her skin as she moves to readjust, a gentle tug that is more annoyance than pain. The track has, unsurprisingly, been empty all morning, the few crows overhead the only noise Carmilla has heard for hours. Her skin is sun warmed to an almost uncomfortable degree and she’s starting to get hungry but the quiet is too precious to give up.

The sound hits her first, the crunch of snow underfoot, the pat of a sneaker on track and Carmilla groans low in her gut for her loss. The scent finds her next: heady but sweet, familiar in the way it hits the back of her throat and sticks . She can taste vanilla, earth.

The pats soon become a rhythm, echoing out into the open arena, hitting Carmilla’s bench, minute vibrations running along her spine. There’s a heartbeat then, steady, strong, the wisp of an exhaled breath then peppermint in the air. Carmilla turns onto her side, opens her eyes to find Danny Lawrence steadily making her way along the inside track. She’s oblivious to her company, eyes focused on the space ahead of her, red ponytail bobbing in time with her movements, a slow swish at the middle of her back.

There was a girl like Danny in the 70’s. She was tall, lithe, blue eyes, a runner that Carmilla happened upon in San Francisco. She wasn’t smart but she was honest and kindhearted. Carmilla would follow her to the track and watch her run, sinew and muscle sliding beneath her skin, blood pumping hot in her veins. Afterwards she would bound up to Carmilla smelling of sweat and sun, eyes bright and Carmilla would kiss her long and deep, let the taste of her settle in.

They spent long hours in parks with groups of lackadaisical dreamers, the girl’s long legs in Carmilla’s lap, lean and fair, skin soft beneath Carmilla’s wandering hands. Carmilla would read aloud to her, poems from a long-forgotten age, novels in German and French whose translations to English were never quite right. The girl would fall asleep and Carmilla would wake her with kisses to the inner thigh, a light scraping of teeth.

It takes Danny six full laps before she notices Carmilla and when she does she stops in her tracks just a few feet away, a breath of hot air misting out in front of her. “Oh,” she says mostly to herself.

Carmilla slowly sits up stretching her arms out in front of her and cranes her neck from side to side. She runs her eyes along Danny from top to toe, listens to the wild thump of Danny’s heart, fast against her rib cage. “Xena,” she says, voice gruff with disuse.

Danny looks down the length of track in front of her then back to Carmilla, “Have you been here the whole time?”

“It’s possible.” Carmilla leans forward, elbows to thighs, hands loose between her knees.

“Oh,” she says again, looking from Carmilla back out to the track.

Carmilla hums in response, her eyes trace Danny again, lingering on the sheen of sweat at her neck before Danny takes a tentative step forward, fingers tracing absent patterns on the side of her thighs. “Go on,” Carmilla says after a few more quiet beats, head nodding to the side.

“I-,” Danny starts. She looks down to her sneakers and back up to Carmilla with a small nod, “yea.” There’s a smile then, small, almost shy before Danny is off.

Carmilla is still there when she finishes a half hour later, face red with exertion, breath hot and visible in the cold air. Carmilla doesn’t watch her as she stretches and Danny doesn’t look for Carmilla before she leaves. They certainly don’t walk back towards the center of campus a few feet apart, Carmilla a shadow at Danny’s heels, the scent of sweat and sun sticking to the back of her throat.


End file.
